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Poem

"What is the problem that is a solution?"
"My dear, that is easy, it is being dead when you are very much alive and well!"

A newspaper garden is what we call a street
The unclear air whispers tainted secrets
Against s brick building where lust generates heat
That distracts the people from their lack
Of love born lust
Because they gave up everything up to trust
And settled for desperation a while back

Mirrors line the sidewalks
They glitter back reflections no one wants to see in order to ignore these brown images
People spend their times with nothing as the foundation of time consuming talks
Among friends, family and passersby, they notice the barren leaves and dilapidated buildings
But they relinquished their abilities
To see colours, spots, and paisley; to close their eyes
And open them to see a world of their own making, with no added fees

Imagination was soon abandoned and forsaken
Seen as useless
They are taken
By the glittering illusion of reality
But what's to say what's wrong, real or, right?
Does there have to be a reason
That I can see a sunrise at night?
Or I can kiss and grasp emotions in two worlds?
What's to say I'm wrong or right?
Everyone dreams of flying
But they fear living as much as dying
But sometimes reason should stop
And people should understand that if they close their eyes
And open them to see a talking rabbit, a flower with only four thorns under a glass globe
Speaking vainly for an hour
Or seeing yourself use a superpower
And clinging to this picture
Or living in both fantasy and reality
It does not mean you are insane
Or drugs are running through a vain
Or you are having delusions from pain
But maybe your are living
Again
Your are not trying to escape
Your are being set free

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